


A Righteous Lie

by sophisticus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5826898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisticus/pseuds/sophisticus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fight to save Hawke's mother from Quentin, the corrupt blood mage escapes and leaves Leandra to die. Hawke is determined to have vengeance for her mother's death, so she goes to the one person she knows will ensure the maleficar's capture and death: Meredith. The two women concoct a plan to lure him out of hiding, using Hawke as bait. There are only two catches: 1. She must pretend to be Tranquil, to fool Quentin into believing that she isn't a threat, and 2. Hawke cannot tell anybody, especially those she loves, the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution for Fenhawke week #2

Only in Kirkwall could you get into all-out fights with three different groups of people before noon, Hawke thought to herself as she reached the front door of her mansion. Her clothes were sticky with the blood of carta, bandits, and a particularly persistent giant spider that had all decided to take her on. She sighed. It would take the rest of the day to get the gunk out of her armor.

As her hand closed upon the door handle and twisted, faint voices floated over to her from inside. Opening the door revealed the voice belonged to her uncle, who was currently pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Enchantment?” Sandal was suggesting cheerfully.

“No, not enchantment,” Gamlen snapped. “Leandra. Can I see her?”

“Enchantment!”

“No, Leandra! Lee. Ann. Drah!”

“What’s wrong, uncle?” Hawke interrupted, deciding it was best to step in before the man lost his temper on Sandal. Gamlen turned to her, looking relieved to see her for the first time she could remember.

“ _There_ you are! Where’s your mother? Is she feeling alright?” he asked.

Hawke blinked in surprise. “I’m sure she’s alright,” she answered. “Why are you so upset?”

“Your mother didn’t show up for our weekly visit,” he explained peevishly. “Is she ill? She is here, isn’t she?”

“No, Gamlen. We haven’t seen her all day,” Bodahn said, stepping forward.

“Where could she be?” her uncle wondered aloud.

“With her suitor, perhaps?” Bodahn suggested.

Gamlen looked surprised at that. “Suitor? Leandra never mentioned a suitor.”

“Well, those lilies arrived for her this morning,” the dwarf replied, gesturing to a vase full of white lilies on the desk, next to where Sandal kept his enchanting equipment. The flowers sent up a red flag, and Hawke frowned as she examined the memories dragged up by the floral arrangement.

“White lilies…” she said slowly. “I know something about that.”

“Don’t just leave me waiting, what is it?” Gamlen demanded.

“There’s a killer in Kirkwall who sends his victims white lilies before he takes them,” Hawke explained. She tried to keep her voice neutral, but she could still see the shock and fear stealing across her uncle’s face with every word she spoke. “He’s murdered several women already.”

“No. You’re wrong. Leandra is fine,” Gamlen protested. Hawke sympathized with him; part of her wanted to ignore this, to pretend everything was okay, but if there were even the slightest chance this was real, she had to do something about it.

“Aveline will get the city guard to keep an eye out. Don’t worry, Uncle,” she reassured him, but already in her mind she was racing through all of the possible places her mother could be.

“Well...all right. That girl will know what to do,” Gamlen said halfheartedly. “Maybe Leandra took another path to my house. I could’ve just missed her. I’m going back to Lowtown.”

“You should help Gamlen look for your mother,” Bodahn suggested to Hawke. “You might be able to track her more easily once night falls and the streets empty out. The boy and I will stay here in case she returns.”

Hawke nodded her thanks, then went to hastily put on some armor. Robes might be all well and good, but they didn’t help much against assassins and their sneaky daggers.

When she finally made her way to Lowtown, she had Fenris, Varric, and Anders in tow. For once, Fenris and Anders weren’t bickering, for which she was grateful. She had enough going on without that headache added on top of it.

She spotted her uncle, who was stopped and speaking to a young dirty boy. “Wait, wait,” her uncle was saying urgently. “You say you saw Leandra?”

“I did. What of it?” the urchin said defensively.

“Blue dress? Gray hair? Her cloak was brown, I think. She holds it closed with a round broach,” Gamlen described, “silver with…with garnets.”

“I told you already, I saw her!”

“Did you see where she went?” Gamlen shifted from foot to foot, arms crossed tightly over his chest.

The urchin squinted up at the gray haired man. “What do I get for telling you?” he said shrewdly.

Hawke stepped closer. “Here,” she said, handing him a coin that happened to be in her pocket. “Please, it’s very important.”

The boy gasped at the sight of it. “That’s real silver, that is! I’m your man, through and through. Tell you everything I know! That lady was here. She looked like she was going to take the bridge to Hightown,” he explained. “But then a man came up to her. He stumbled over, right at her feet, like he was dead. His hands were all bloody, like he’d been in a fight. The lady shook him, and I think he said, ‘help’. She got him to his feet, and he was wobbly – it was funny. Anyway, she left, and…that’s all I saw,” the urchin shrugged.

“I never thought I’d curse my mother’s kind-heartedness,” Hawke sighed to Gamlen.

“You could be wrong about all of this,” her uncle replied hopefully. “Maybe the flowers don’t mean anything.”

“The man left some blood where he fell over,” the urchin added helpfully, pointing out a dark stain over on the other side of the alley. “You could follow it.”

“Why don’t you do what the boy says?” Gamlen suggested. “I’m going to go home in case Leandra shows up." Hawke nodded, and watched her uncle walk off towards his home.

Hawke knelt to examine the blood. She had no way to know if this blood belonged to her mother or to the man (or the killer, her subconscious provided unhelpfully). “This blood is fresh,” she said aloud. “If we hurry, there might be a trail we can follow.” Hawke swiveled her head, and spotted another blood spatter several yards away. She could see the faint outline of a blood trail, leading into Lowtown’s streets. “More blood. I’m on the right path,” she muttered under her breath as she and the others followed the trial. She and Fenris caught each other’s eyes; she couldn’t remember ever seeing him so somber, and he couldn’t remember ever seeing her so scared.

They followed the spatters as they twisted through the dark streets, past the Hanged Man and deep into Lowtown. The trail eventually led to a darkened doorway. “A foundry?” Varric said warily. “Why would the trail lead here?”

“They must have gone inside,” Hawke said, doing her best to keep her voice steady. Judging from Fenris’s glance, she wasn’t entirely succeeding. The group made their way to the door, which swung open at their touch.

They crept in, caution taking over Hawke’s urge to dash blindly in. “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” Varric said suddenly. Hawke frowned. Had she? After five years, she felt like she’d been in most every part of Kirkwall and at times it felt as if the scenery was repeating itself, but he had a point; this place definitely felt familiar.

“I wonder if we’ll find more than just a sack of bones this time,” Anders said offhandedly, and the realization hit Hawke like a sledgehammer upside the head: this was where they’d tracked Ninette, only to find a handful of her bones and her wedding ring. They’d had to tell her disgruntled husband that she’d simply left, but told the truth to her distraught elven lover. The thought of finding the same thing with her mother left Hawke’s blood chilled. Fenris shot Anders a cold glare at the tactless comment.

“Mother must be here somewhere,” she said forcefully. “We need to look around. There, more blood. They are here, somewhere.” The blood trail continued across the dirty room and up a rickety set of stairs. They followed it down a short hallway, until it stopped at a small trapdoor in the floor.

“Looks like somebody forgot to hide the trapdoor to his secret hideout,” Varric commented.

“This wasn’t here before,” Hawke said slowly. She knelt and lifted the door. Below, she could see a ladder led down to a large, dimly lit room. She descended, and could hear the others following her as she warily looked around. For comfort, she hoisted the towering staff off her back and held it at her side, the tip of the two foot long blade on the end barely dragging in the dust at her feet.


	2. All That Remains

They’d barely made it halfway across the dirty room before at least a dozen shades popped up out of nowhere accompanied by a giant glowing rage demon. They were dispatched quickly enough, though; years of fighting together had left Hawke, Varric, Fenris, and Anders a deadly efficient team.

Hawke wiped sweat off her brow and glanced around. Her eyes widened when they fell on the prone form of a woman, lying with her back to them. Hawke rushed over. “Mother!” she said urgently, grabbing the woman’s shoulder and rolling her over. But it wasn’t her mother. Alessa’s dead eyes stared up at her blankly; Gascard DuPuis had been right about her being a target of the Kirkwall killer after all. And if Alessa was here and dead, Hawke shuddered to even imagine what might have become of her mother. Not for the first time, Hawke found herself praying to whomever might be listening that they were massively mistaken about all this.

“I’m sorry, Alessa,” Hawke said softly to the dead woman.

Anders laid his hand on her shoulder, giving her a supportive nod. “Come on,” he said.

They continued, dread growing with every step. Even Varric had gone silent, his face drawn and tense. Seeing Alessa’s body had shaken them all, and solidified the fear of Leanda being in even more trouble.

Hawke paused as she spotted something shiny in the dirt. She knelt and picked it up. “I know this locket,” she said, feeling like her heart was sinking down to the vicinity of her ankles. “It belongs to Mother.”

That was it, then. Her mother _was_ here. She squared her shoulders, and entered the next room, staff ready.

They descended a set of stairs, coming into a large chamber. Papers were scattered over the whole floor, books stacked haphazardly on chairs and tables as well as a few bookcases. A bed and wardrobe were shoved off to one side of the room.

“Does he…live here?” Hawke wondered aloud. She stepped carefully over the pages, skimming her eyes over the contents. Their subjects left her blood chilled; the books and papers were all on blood magic, human anatomy, necromancy, and different medical procedures. Her eyes fell on a letter addressed to someone named Quentin. The kidnapper?

“Hawke, you might want to see this,” Fenris called from behind her.

He was standing next to a large shrine of sorts, complete with candles and fine cloths. And in the middle of it, painted with loving detail, was a portrait of a woman who looked like she could be Leandra’s twin. Hawke drew closer, her emotions roiling. All of this was beginning to draw up a picture in her mind, and Hawke wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to see the finished product.

“A shrine dedicated to a wife? A sister?” Anders guessed.

“This man is either very devoted or very insane,” Fenris added.

“I need to find her, _now_ ,” Hawke barked. She turned and strode away purposefully, clenching her fists to hide their trembling.

The group crept deeper into the foundry. Hawke’s ears nearly itched from how hard she was listening for any sound that would give away their quarry’s position. They turned one more corner, and finally a faint voice grabbed their attention. Fenris’ eyes caught Hawke’s for a brief moment before they all broke into a sprint.

Hawke turned a corner and skidded to a stop as the room opened up before them. A fire crackled in a makeshift hearth, shedding eerie light on a rough table strewn with more paper and sinister-looking tools. The ground was splattered with blood and in a corner of the room was a large lumpy pile with a sheet draped over it. A single pale, bloody hand stuck out from under the sheet, leaving little to the imagination about the rest of the hidden contents.

An older man in robes stood behind a chair in the middle of the room, staring at them with vague surprise from where his pacing had been uninterrupted. His graying hair hung limply, and his pale eyes were red-rimmed and seemed almost dead.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” he said in a curiously high and reedy voice. “Leandra was so sure you’d come for her.”

Hawke’s eyes darted around the room, but her mother was nowhere to be found. “Where is she?” she demanded.

Quentin’s brows drew together at her tone, and his lips pressed together in frustration and disappointment. “You’ll never understand my purpose,” he said scornfully. He stepped out from behind the chair, pacing again. “Your mother was chosen because she was special, and now she is part of something…greater.” The last word left his mouth with something close to reverence, but it chilled Hawke’s blood more than anything she’d seen so far.

“Spare me your demented rambling,” she barked out. Panic was beginning to bubble under the surface, and she knew she would break soon. “Where is she!?”

Quentin gave a very faint smile. “She’s _here_. She’s waiting for you. I have done the impossible. I have touched the face of the Maker and _lived_.” He turned away from her, seemingly oblivious to her frenzy. His hands rested on the back of the chair, which faced away from them. Only now did Hawke notice someone was sitting in the chair, their head covered by a dingy white veil. “Do you know what the strongest force in the universe is?” the man mused before turning to face Hawke again, then moved behind the chair to face the person sitting there. “Love. I pieced her together from memory. I found her eyes, her skin, her delicate fingers. And at last, her face. Oh, this beautiful face,” he sighed, his voice trembling with emotion. He reached down and took the person’s hands and helped them up to reveal they wore an old white wedding dress, their movements jerky and awkward. Hawke watched with growing horror. “I’ve searched far and wide to find you, beloved, and no force on this earth will part us.” The figure finally turned to face the group, and Hawke was met with her own mother’s ghastly pale face and clouded eyes stitched onto a patchwork body.

The shock was as if a massive weight had slammed into her chest; she couldn’t make herself draw breath, and she couldn’t drag her eyes away from the horror that had been her mother. A half second later, a bright flash and a bang accompanied a real weight slamming into her chest. She flew back several feet, slamming into someone behind her and knocking them both down onto the dirty ground. She gasped for air as the person under her shoved her off. Anders’ face swam into her vision before he helped her upright, shouting encouragement over the din of Fenris and Varric fighting the demons Quentin had just summoned. The two mages stepped into the fray, wearing down the blood mage’s defenses.

One by one the shades were picked off, and even a desire demon defeated, before the maleficar’s barrier finally broke. One of Varric’s bolts slammed into his shoulder and he cried out in pain, reaching out towards Leandra. Hawke stepped forward and slammed the heavy end of her staff against the side of his head, staggering him and sending out a spray of blood. He stood, half of his face limp and the other half enraged, blood streaming down his head and down his chest. Quentin drew his hands together, dark energy pooling between them, then thrust it at them all. A deafening blast burst forth, knocking them all backwards. Lights flashed behind Hawke’s closed eyes and her eardrums throbbed, but after a moment she drew herself up painfully and looked around. Her staff had been thrown clear, and she spotted Fenris, Anders, and Varric all sprawled out looking equally as dazed as she was, but all alive.

Quentin was gone.

Leandra lay crumpled on the ground beside the chair, which had been knocked over in the fight. Hawke stumbled over to her and fell to her knees beside her mother, who somehow was still breathing. She pulled Leandra’s head into her lap, and her mother stared up at her with her fogged over eyes.

“Mother,” Hawke panted. Her voice sounded muted and distorted to her own ears. Leandra’s blueish lips curved in the faintest of smiles.

“Daughter,” she whispered. Hawke’s hands fluttered frantically over her mother’s ruined body. Think, she had to _think_ , surely there was some spell she knew, some unconscious magic even, that she could weave. Anything.

“Anders?” Hawke choked out.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, kneeling in front of her. “There’s nothing I can do. It doesn’t look like even _his_ magic was enough to keep her alive.”

“I knew you would come,” Leandra whispered.

“Don’t move, mother,” Hawke commanded, fighting the tears she knew were coming. “We’ll find a way to…”

“Shhh, don’t fret darling,” her mother murmured. “That man would’ve kept me trapped in here. But now…I’m free. I get to see Bethany again, and your father.” For the first time since this whole ordeal, Hawke saw worry creep into her mother’s eyes. “But you’ll be here alone.”

“I’ve failed you, mother,” Hawke mumbled tearfully. “I should’ve come sooner, I should’ve been faster.”

“Shhhh,” Leandra hushed again. “You know that’s not true. My little girl has become so strong.” She raised one trembling, starkly pale hand to Hawke’s cheek. Her skin was dry and so, so cold. Hawke held her hand close as hot tears finally spilled over down her cheeks. “I love you,” her mother whispered. “You’ve always made me so proud.”

Leandra’s eyes flickered shut, and her hand fell limply from Hawke’s shaking hand. Hawke sat frozen, staring at her mother’s still face, the ghost of her last smile still touching the corners of her lips and the creases around her eyes. Hawke’s face twisted as a howl of despair wrenched itself from the depths of her soul, and she sobbed as if the entire world had been torn cruelly away from her. And in a way, it had.


	3. A Friend In Need

A knock interrupted the scratching of Varric’s inkpen on his notebook. He glanced up from the page to see the outline of a dwarf in his doorway.

“Excuse me, Master Tethras?” the man said hesitantly. He stepped into the lamplight to reveal he was none other than Bodahn Feddic, Hawke’s impromptu butler. His appearance made Varric’s heart sink. “Do you have a moment?”

“Of course, Bodahn, what is it?” Varric stretched, hearing his back pop loudly as if to protest his hours of sitting still. “Is Hawke feeling better yet?”

“She’s actually why I’m here, ser,” the other dwarf sighed. “She still refuses to come out of her room and she barely eats. I’ve set meals out for her, but more often than not she doesn’t touch them. I’m worried that she’ll make herself ill if she keeps this up, if she hasn’t already.”

“It’s been a week since Leandra died. Haven’t you gone in to check on her?”

“She keeps the door locked, ser.”

 Varric sighed. “Of course she does. I’ll go check on her, maybe I can talk some sense into her.” A locked door was no challenge for him, though the grieving woman inside the room would more than likely prove much more difficult.

At this point, Bodahn looked nervous. “Ser, it’s not just that her door is locked,” he explained hesitantly, “it’s that she… Well, Sandal and I are fairly certain she’s melted the door handle. It’s not that it _won’t_ open, it’s that it _can’t_ open.”

“Oh for the love of-” Varric groaned. He dragged his hands down his face as if to wipe away his exhaustion. “Fine. I’ll find someone who can get past a _melted_ doorknob.”

Half an hour later, Varric found himself in front of Fenris’s mansion. After six years of knowing the elf, he didn’t bother knocking anymore. He pushed the door open with a low creak and strode across the main vestibule. He knew the elf would be able to tell who he was by his footsteps alone.

In Fenris’ room, the hearth had a small but warm fire going, keeping the chill of the autumn air at bay. Fenris sat on a low stool cleaning his armor. He’d taken it all apart and laid it out on a sheet, leaving him in only his leggings. The firelight reflected dully off his brown skin and glinted on his lyrium tattoos as he moved. He didn’t look up from his work.

“What is it, Varric?” Fenris’ low, even voice carried across the room. Varric stepped into the room and sat heavily on another stool, sighing.

“It’s Hawke.”

The warrior didn’t look surprised. “You said that we should give her space, so we have,” he pointed out. He twisted his cleaning cloth into a small knot and pried at some dirt in a crease of his armor. “A week is a short time to mourn the loss of her mother.”

“You’re right, of course, I expect she’ll never really get over it, but that’s not what has me worried.” Varric leaned forward and steepled his fingers. “She’s not eating. I assume she’s drinking, since she has that bathroom attached to her room, but she can’t survive on water alone.”

Fenris lifted the piece he had been cleaning and examined it carefully, then set it aside, evidently satisfied. He picked up another piece and began cleaning again. “So pick the lock. I assume she’s locked herself inside, yes? Surely you’re a better fit for that than I.”

“She’s melted the damn doorknob. I couldn’t pick that lock if I tried,” the dwarf explained. Fenris’ hands paused and for the first time the men’s eyes met.

“She melted…the doorknob.”

“So I’m told.”

“Perhaps it’s just me, but something about a doorknob being melted to prevent entry says ‘leave me alone’,” the elf said lightly, resuming his work.

Varric spread his hands entreatingly. “Normally, you’d be right. But like I said, she’s not eating. And making sure she doesn’t make herself ill weighs a little more heavily than respecting her privacy, no matter how much she deserves it right now. Desperate times, right?”

Fenris let out a longsuffering sigh. “I suppose you want me to try and get past it? What am I supposed to do, kick the door down?”

“You _are_ the only one here who can phase through material at will,” Varric chuckled, but his smile slid off his face as quickly as it had appeared. “As it is, I think you’re the only one who will be able to reach her if she’s as bad as I worry she is. Not just physically, but on an emotional level. You’re the only person who she’s fallen in l-” The dwarf was cut off by an icy glare from the elf. Varric held up his hands in surrender. “Alright, fine, never mind. But if you still care for her, even after leaving her like you did, then I know you’ll help.” Varric stood and brushed imaginary dust off his pants, then turned and strode away. He only paused at the doorway to look back briefly. “That’s all I had to say.” Then, he was gone.

Fenris returned his gaze to the piece of armor in his hands, and set it down with a sigh. He couldn’t deny that he’d thought about going to see her long before now, but he didn’t feel like his presence would be welcome. Their falling-out following their night spent together had hurt Hawke deeply, no matter how much she acted as if everything were alright. She hadn’t been avoiding him, but she hadn’t sought him out for anything. He missed her deeply, but he also recognized that space is what she needed. It happened to work well that he’d needed some space afterwards, too.

The memory surfaced of the following morning, when he’d shown up at her door with guilt in his heart and an apology on his lips. He knew she was hoping for him to take back his hasty words from the night before, and he had been deeply sorry to disappoint her. The light had faded from her eyes as he explained that he wasn’t emotionally ready to commit to the kind of relationship that she wanted. That had hurt even more than the feeling of all his memories slipping once more from his grasp.

But perhaps Varric was right, Fenris mused to himself as he pulled on his leather jerkin and buttoned it shut. Maybe he was the right man for this job, if nothing else.

Five minutes later, Bodahn let him inside Hawke Estate.

“Thank the ancestors you’ve come,” the dwarf babbled nervously as he gestured up at Hawke’s room. “I was beginning to worry that Master Tethras wasn’t going to send anybody after all. Sandal, Orana, and I have all tried to convince her to come out of there but we haven’t heard so much as a peep in four days. And watch out for the mabari, he hasn’t moved from her door since Mistress Leandra died. He won’t let us close to the door anymore.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Fenris acknowledged with a nod, then headed up the stairs. The last time he’d gone up these stairs it had been when Hawke had led him up by the hand following their impromptu kiss against the foyer wall. Hawke had given a nervous laugh when her giant red-curtained bed had come into sight and he’d swallowed her laugh with another kiss, softer this time but no less intense.

Fenris shook himself mentally, snapping his attention back to the present. Hawke’s warhound, Kitty, lay curled in a ball by the closed bedroom door. He raised his massive head and stared warily at the elf.

“I’m here to see if I can help Hawke,” Fenris said in a low voice. Kitty glared at him, apparently weighing to pros and cons of letting him close to his master, but eventually he let out a huff and slowly raised his bulk off the floor and stepped aside.

Fenris raised his hand and laid it on the doorknob. Sure enough, it was crooked and warped where it had been partially melted. He looked down and spotted shiny spots on the carpet where the molten metal had dripped and solidified again in the carpet. He turned his concentration to activating the lyrium that ran in the grooves carved into his skin all those years go.

His fingertips glowed pale blue and hazy, and slid through the metal as if it were made of vapor. He felt around for where the locking mechanism would be and heard a _snick_ as the metal snapped under his touch. Fenris withdrew his hand, the glow fading away, and pulled open the now-ajar door.


	4. Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms

For a moment, Fenris wondered if he’d stepped into the wrong room. The normally tidy room looked as if a hurricane had swept through; the bedsheets were in disarray, clothes and belongings strewn across the floor. The curtains that had hung around Hawke’s giant bed had been ripped off and thrown aside; at least one chair was in splinters on the floor, and broken glass glinted at him from the remains of at least wine bottle, the contents of which stained the carpet a deep blood red. At least seven other wine bottles were scattered about, all empty. Deep scorch marks scarred the wall and the room stunk of ash and spoiled wine.

Fenris stepped gingerly through the wreckage, scanning the room for the tousled black hair and signature blood swipe he knew so well. When he found neither, his eyes turned to the bathroom door off to the side of the room.

The door refused to open all the way; it bumped against something halfway. Peeking his head around the door, squeezing through the small opening it gave him, he could see what blocked his way: Hawke.

She lay curled up on her side, her back to him. She didn’t stir when the door bumped her, or even when he had to push her a little to allow himself room to enter. Fenris closed the door behind him, leaving them in the dim flickering light of the lamp up on the wall. He knelt beside her and rolled her gently onto her back. Her normally pale skin seemed even more ghastly white than normal, exaggerated by the lack of her usual blood swipe war-paint across her nose and cheeks.

“Hawke,” Fenris murmured. “Wake up.” He shook her shoulder lightly, again with no response. His worry deepened; a quick hold of her wrist confirmed a heartbeat, though a little slow. He thumbed one of her eyelids up, and her pupil contracted sluggishly. Remembering the many empty wine bottles, he sniffed her breath and reeled back at the stench of alcohol. “You never could hold your liquor,” he muttered to himself as he slid his arms under her prone form and lifted.

A moment later, Hawke was in her bed and by some miracle he had managed not to step on any broken glass as he carried her across the trashed room. He made his way to the bedroom door and leaned his head out. “Bodahn?”

The dwarf’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, eyes full of concern. “Yes, ser?”

“Please get me a couple glasses of cool water and a clean towel, and a bucket if you have one.”

“Oh, of course! Right away!” The dwarf disappeared, reappearing only a minute later. “Here you are,” he panted, setting everything down on the bedside table Fenris had just set upright. “Ancestors, she looks awful,” he fretted at the sight of Hawke lying prone on the mattress. “Is she going to be alright?”

“Of course she will,” Fenris said brusquely as he dampened the cloth with the water from one of the glasses. “She’s Hawke, she always pulls through.”

Fenris wiped at her brow with the cloth, pondering on if he believed his own words. In the nearly four years he’d known her, he’d never seen anything affect her this badly. To be fair, mourning one’s own mother being murdered had to have an incredible toll on one’s life, but even her brother’s forced initiation into the Gray Wardens hadn’t upset her nearly this much. He hadn’t been there, so he had no idea beyond Varric’s words on how it had affected her in the moment, but he knew at least that she’d returned and had to tell her mother that Carver was forced to join the Gray Wardens or die. That night, she had gotten very, very drunk from her wine cellar. It was in Carver’s honor, she’d claimed, even though her brother had always hated wine. Fenris guessed it was partially to honor him, like she’d said, and partially to ease her guilt and the strain of waiting for weeks on end before learning he’d survived the initiation.

Of all of the metaphorical and literal demons Hawke had faced, either alone or by his side, he knew that guilt was the one she struggled with the most. On one of the evenings she had spent in his mansion with him, chatting over dinner, she had confessed in an unguarded moment that she blamed herself at least partially for Bethany’s death, and fully for Carver’s drastically changed fate. That was the first time he’d ever seen tears in her eyes. If he had to guess, he could say with much confidence that this drunken stupor was due to that same guilt, multiplied now with her mother’s death added onto it.

At least two hours passed before Hawke moved a muscle. She woke to a pounding headache and every muscle in her body throbbing in protest. She opened her eyes and immediately squeezed them shut; even the dim lighting seemed blinding.

Fenris leaned forward, relieved to see her waking up. He kept his voice soft, so not to startle her. “Hawke?”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but at the last moment she gagged. She jerked to the side, leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited into the well-placed bucket. Fenris brushed her hair out of her face with one hand, rubbing soothing circles on her back with the other as she retched again.

After another minute, she spat the last of the bile into the bucket and leaned back on the bed wearily. Fenris wiped her face with the cool cloth to clean her up. She opened her eyes a fraction, her ice blue eyes staring up at him blearily. For a moment she didn’t seem to recognize him, but then her eyes slid shut and she let out a soft sigh. “Fenris. What time is it? What…what day is it?”

“Tuesday, probably,” he guessed. “It’s late, but I don’t think I’ve heard the chantry bell strike midnight yet.” He saw her lips mouth the word ‘Tuesday’, and a frown wrinkle her brow. Hawke lifted a hand to her head where undoubtedly a deep headache was already throbbing. She looked at him again, seeming to be able to focus a little more now.

“I’m thirsty,” she muttered after a moment.

Fenris nodded towards her table. “I have water.” She nodded, and he helped her sit upright with the help of some pillows behind her. He handed her the glass still full of water, and she downed it in seconds. Two glasses of water later, she finally seemed satisfied.

“Thank you,” she said softly. She seemed to have realized now what state he had found her in, especially the state of her room. She lowered her eyes, unable to meet the elf’s gaze. “I’m sorry you have to see all this.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Fenris said, waving a hand dismissively. Seemingly satisfied that she was okay for the moment, he stood and began picking up debris from the floor. The clothes and curtains he set in a pile at the foot of the bed, the splintered fragments of the chair he tossed in a corner. “We were worried about you.”

One of Hawke’s eyebrows arched as she watched him begin gingerly picking up glass fragments and setting them in a pile on the bedside table. “Who’s ’we’?”

“Varric sent me to check on you,” Fenris said automatically, but regretted it when he saw the faint hope flicker out in her expression. Her eyes dropped to her hands curled up in her lap. She fiddled absentmindedly with her ring as she seemed to fall deep into thought.

“How is everybody? I know I’ve…not really been out and about,” Hawke said at length, another apology in the tone of her voice. Fenris let out a huff as he righted her wardrobe from where it had fallen on its front.

“I don’t tend to spend my free time with your friends,” he pointed out. When Hawke’s shoulders slumped, he relented. “However, it is likely they’re all doing what they normally do when you don’t have them with you.”

“Varric will be spinning stories in the Hanged Man,” she murmured. “Isabela will be drinking or in bed with someone. Anders will be running his clinic”

“Sebastian is probably in the chantry, Aveline will be handling guard duties, and who knows what that blood mage, Merrill, is doing” the elf added, now cleaning up the spilled wine. By now, the room looked almost livable. “You sure do know how to absolutely wreck a room.” When Hawke didn’t reply, he glanced up at her. Her gaze was faraway, lost deep in thought once more, but something seemed different about her. “Hawke?”

Her gaze snapped back to the present, and she gave him a piercing stare. “Quentin is still alive,” she stated, her voice colored with a seething hatred.

“Yes, he escaped,” Fenris frowned. “We found no evidence of where he went so we gave up the chase for the sake of getting your mother out of there.”

“Yes, I know,” Hawke said distantly. “It’s just what you said about Merrill, it might have given me an idea.”

“Hawke.” He waited until she met his gaze. “You’re not thinking about doing what I think you are, are you?”

“What? No, no,” she waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not going to do anything stupid, you don’t have to worry about that. I just might have thought of a way to help bring him to justice, I just need to think about it a while.”

Fenris sat on the edge of the bed, close to her. “Please do not do anything reckless,” he admonished softly. “I know that while you understand why I could not be with you in the way you wish, that I still hurt you, but please don’t mistake that for me not caring about you. It would be a colder world if anything happened to you.”

Hawke’s eyes dropped from his, a blush finally bringing some color to her cheeks. After a moment, she coughed lightly and glanced at him. “You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to,” she offered. “I think I’ll be alright now.”

“I will stay if you want me to.”

She let out a breath. “I want you to, but I don’t need you to. Go home and get some sleep. And, um, thank you again. For coming to get me.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. She gave a sheepish smile, and he gave a soft smile back.

“If you ever have need of me, you need only to ask,” he affirmed. She nodded. “Before I go home, however, you need to give your word that you’ll allow Bodahn in here. The dwarf is worried sick about you.”

Hawke glanced guiltily at her bedroom door, where her poor misshapen doorknob glinted dully in the light of her lamp. “Ah,” she mumbled. “I ought to apologize about that.”

“Yes, you should,” Fenris said, amused. He stood and stretched, popping his back as he did so. “If you’re really alright now, I’ll go home. Just…please tell me before you try anything reckless,” he asked, half ordering and half pleading. Hawke’s expression softened, and she nodded.

“I promise,” she said. “Goodnight, Fenris.”

“Goodnight, Hawke.”


	5. An Arguably Stupid Idea

The next morning found a rather hungover Hawke standing in the entrance to the Gallows. She had no weapons, no companions, no armor. Just clothes, and her heart in her throat. It was supposed to be a gesture of peace and goodwill, she thought to herself as she began ascending the stairs that led to the Templar Hall. But she couldn’t deny that being so close to the Circle, alone and practically defenseless among the heart of templar power in southern Thedas, made her skin crawl.

Asking directions from a nearby templar recruit led her exactly where she had hoped: Knight-Commander Meredith’s office. Hawke hesitated, arm raised to knock, reconsidering this whole idea. All the negatives played out in her mind, all the possible horrible consequences, but after a moment she steeled herself and rapped her knuckles on the wood in what she hoped was a polite but firm manner. A slightly muffled ‘enter’ came forth, and she pushed the door open.

Meredith’s office was as Spartan as Hawke had imagined. A bookshelf and a low table were pushed up against a far wall, no personal decorations or mementos to speak of. A large desk dominated the center of the room, with a single chair behind it in which the Knight-Commander herself sat.

The blonde woman barely looked up from the report she was reading. “Yes, what is it?” she asked brusquely.

“My name is Hawke, and I have a proposition I believe you’d be interested in,” Hawke said with a lot more bravado than she felt. Meredith looked up and pinned her with her stare.

“The name ‘Hawke’ has shown up on my reports more times than I care to count,” she said thoughtfully. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the five years since you arrived.”

“I’ve worked hard for a secure life for my family.”

The templar laid down the report. “I read about what happened to your mother last week. You have my sympathies. I know all too well the loss that magic can inflict on innocent families.”

Hawke acknowledged this with a somber nod. “Thank you. Actually, that’s why I’m here,” she said, stepping closer. Meredith watched her carefully. “I’m sure you’re aware that the maleficar involved, Quentin, escaped.”

“Yes, an unfortunate thing,” the blonde sighed. “I have had my men searching high and low for him yet he evades our grasp still. No doubt with the help of blood magic, I am sure.”

Hawke leaned forward, eyes glinting in the light shining through the window. “Knight-Commander, I’d like to request to be made a part of the official investigation.”

Meredith raised one blonde, perfect eyebrow. “This is a templar matter, serah. Civilians are welcome to report any activity that they believe to be the work of apostates or blood mages, but the actual investigation is not open to civilians. As it is,” she continued, raising a hand to forestall Hawke’s protests, “we are not looking for Quentin specifically anymore. By this point, he could be well outside of city limits and outside of my jurisdiction. Stay out of it.”

“You’re going to just let him _go_?” Hawke demanded hotly.

“I cannot afford to concentrate the entirety of my men’s attention upon one maleficar, no matter how dangerous he may be, when there are countless other apostates and blood mages within the city and indeed, even within this Circle, that must be monitored and brought to justice.” The two women’s eyes met, blue to blue. “I advise that you remember that.”

Hawke felt her temper bubble up dangerously close to the surface, hot enough to make her ignore the templar’s warning. “I want Quentin dead, _now_!” she shouted, slamming her fists down on Meredith’s desk. The papers on the surface fluttered at the impact, and with a small _whoosh_ the edges caught fire. Meredith slapped her hand down on them, extinguishing the small lick of flame, and pinned Hawke down with the scariest stare of which she had ever had the misfortune to be on the receiving end. Realizing her mistake too late, Hawke jerked her hands back and stared in horror at the smoking, singed papers under the templar’s gauntleted hand. _Shit._ _Shit shit shit._

“I believe,” Meredith said after a long, horrible silence, “that I have been more than patient with you. More than forgiving. It took me a long time – too long, if I am frank – to discover your little secret. I decided to let it slide, just this once, because I knew of the tragic history of the Amell family, and I knew that you were trying to provide your family with a safe home.” She circled around the desk, approaching Hawke almost casually. Hawke stood still rooted to the spot, horrified. “Despite your acquaintance with a known pirate, I let you be. Even when it became apparent that you are friends with not one, but _two_ other apostates, still I did nothing.”

Hawke finally staggered back, feeling the cold press of the stone wall behind her back. Meredith stepped ever closer, her terrible ice cold eyes boring into Hawke’s. “I ought to have dragged you into the Circle and made you tranquil the day I realized what you are, but against my better judgement I decided to give you leniency. And after all this, you have the utter audacity to come into _my_ office, in _my_ Gallows, and threaten me?” The two women were nearly nose to nose now. Meredith’s voice had grown very quiet, but each word sent cold chills down Hawke’s spine. The apostate swallowed.

“Please,” she croaked. “I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll become a Circle mage, anything. Just let me help find the man who murdered my mother. You can do whatever you want to me afterwards.”

Meredith stared at her. The two women were nearly the same height, but the power difference here was laughable. After a long, pregnant pause, the templar gave a very thin smile.

“Very well,” she hissed. “You can help.”

Hawke blinked once in shock. “What, really?”

Meredith finally stepped away, allowing Hawke room to breathe. “You’ve given me an idea,” she said, rifling once more through the reports on her desk. She pulled out an empty piece of paper from the pile and began scribbling on it. “You’re going to assist me in apprehending this maleficar after all.”

“I thought it was a templar investigation?”

The Knight-Commander paused her writing and pinned Hawke with an irritated glare. “Do you wish to help or not?”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, you’re going to assist in the investigation,” Meredith continued. “Not only is Quentin a wanted maleficar, he is a mass murderer. He needs to be brought to justice, for justice’s sake as well as the safety of Kirkwall and her citizens. We are going to set a trap, and as I’m sure you know, every well-set trap needs bait.” The templar stared her down again, more appraisingly this time.

“Bait?” Hawke repeated. “You want me to be bait?”

“You will pretend to be Tranquil to lull the maleficar into a sense of false security. I will be public in putting you in charge of all the materials on necromancy in the city; Quentin will be undoubtedly be drawn in to either protect the materials, or to gain revenge upon you for foiling his plans, or both.” Meredith finished writing her letter and folded it, sealing it with a wax seal.

Hawke stared at her in horror. “I have to pretend to be Tranquil?” she said in dismay. The Knight-Commander let out a frustrated sigh and turned to stare at her.

“I can make you Tranquil for real, if you prefer,” Meredith said through gritted teeth.

“Pretending is fine,” Hawke said hastily. “I don’t have to get a real forehead brand, though, do I?”

The templar waved the sealed letter at her. “That’s what this is for. Take it to Orsino and he will ensure everything is set in order.”

Hawke took the letter and weighed it in her hand. “Thank you, Knight-Commander,” she said after a moment. “I’m sincerely grateful for the help.”

“One last thing,” Meredith said brusquely, sitting once more in her chair behind her desk, “This operation is secret. That means nobody, not even your _friends_ , may know that you are not really Tranquil. They must all believe it and act their parts if we are to succeed.”

“What if they figure it out on their own?” Hawke asked cautiously. Meredith smiled thinly again.

“Then you become Tranquil for real,” she replied. “If that is not incentive enough, I can always bring in your pirate friend, or your two apostate friends, or that elf squatting in that Hightown mansion, and let you explain to them why it’s your fault they will be either made Tranquil or executed. It is completely up to you. Are we clear?”

Hawke pressed her lips together, fighting the urge to either shout again or to vomit. “Explicitly,” she ground out. With a tense nod, she backed out of the room, shutting the heavy oaken door behind her.


	6. The Lengths We Go To

Orsino’s office was, surprisingly, directly across the hall from Meredith’s. Hawke rapped on the door with her knuckles, unsure of what to expect. She clenched her hands; they were still trembling after the altercation with Meredith. The revelation that the Knight-Commander had not only known she was an apostate, but allowed her to remain outside of the Circle, was a harrowing one. That, alongside the fact that they knew about Fenris, Isabela, Merrill, and Anders, left fear and anxiety clawing at her insides.

All of that, along with this plan that Meredith was forcing her to play a part in, left her with a bitter taste in her mouth and the urge to vomit again.

The heavy door creaked open and a man with receding gray hair and an elf’s telltale ears appeared in the door. “Yes?” he said warily. “What is it?”

“Uh, hi,” Hawke said with a little wave. “You’re First Enchanter Orsino, right?”

The man opened the door wider, revealing himself to be wearing long, dark, hooded robes. “Yes, I am. What can I do for you? Are you a new apprentice?”

“Oh, no, I um…Knight-Commander Meredith wanted me to give you this,” Hawke stammered, holding the folded note. Orsino took it with a curious glance, and popped open the wax seal.

He read it over, eyes getting wider with every line. “Maker above!” he gasped. “Is this legitimate?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Please, come inside,” the elf said, and stepped aside to allow her room. Hawke entered, eyes scanning the room. Compared to Meredith’s, it was overflowing with personality and charisma, but that wasn’t saying much. There were drawings done by Circle children pinned up on the walls, a huge bookcase overflowing with tomes and journals undoubtedly filled with handwritten notes. A desk and chair that mirrored the ones in Meredith’s office sat in the middle, but there was a blanket thrown over the back of the chair and the desk had candles, a bowl of nuts, a pile of papers, and a book. Orsino grabbed a chair that was pushed against the wall and drew it up to the desk, gesturing for her to sit.

Once the two mages were seated, Orsino reread the letter, massaging his temples. “I knew your father, you know,” he sighed at length, looking Hawke in the eye. “Not very well, only as acquaintances, but well enough to recognize the signs of someone looking for escape. When he finally escaped, I wondered for years whether he’d survived, or if he had been dragged into another Circle. The fact that you are here before me, the spitting image of him, tells me that he must have succeeded. Tell me, how has he been, these last many years?”

“He’s dead,” Hawke said softly. “He died only a few years before the Blight began. He never went to another Circle, though.”

Orsino sighed again. “Then I must offer both my congratulations and my condolences, though in light of recent events I would lean more heavily towards the latter,” he said, gesturing to the letter. “I am deeply sorry to hear of your mother’s passing, especially in such a cruel manner. I can only imagine how you must be feeling, especially considering that the blood mage escaped.”

“That’s why I came to Meredith,” Hawke explained. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, and held her head in her hands. “I know it was reckless and dangerous, but I thought…if anybody would have the willingness and the power to track him down, it’d be her.”

“Even though you yourself are an apostate?”

Hawke’s head shot up. “Does bloody everybody know?” she demanded.

Orsino gave a faint smile. “Only those of importance. Meredith decided that it was a need-to-know basis for the templars, and that only I of the mages should know. She feared the news of a known apostate, whom _wasn’t_ forced into the Circle for whatever reason, would be cause for riot.”

“She’s probably right,” Hawke mused. “Maker, I’m regretting this decision more and more with every word.”

The First Enchanter let out a mirthless laugh. “At least you get to leave at the end of this,” he pointed out, only slightly bitterly. “Probably, at least. I won’t lie, I would not put it past Meredith to put you in the Circle or even Tranquilize you at the end of this plan that she’s proposed, simply to make an example out of you,” he said somberly. “This is not the best situation you have put yourself into.”

“Like I said, regret. More and more.” Hawke ground her knuckles into her eyes. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. “Anyway, what does Meredith’s letter say? Did she explain the whole plan?”

“More or less,” Orsino shrugged. “She mentioned you seeking justice for your mother’s death at the hands of a maleficar, and that I am to help you appear Tranquil without actually being so. Though I am not sure how to do so.” He stood, and approached his laden bookshelf. He continued talking as he trailed his fingertip along the spines of the books, apparently searching for a particular tome. “The telltale physical signs of Tranquility are, as I’m sure you know, the forehead brand as well as the emotionless psyche as emotions and dreams are cut off along with your access to the Fade, which leaves you unable to draw upon magic.” He found the one he was looking for, and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled it free from its shelf.

“I was rather hoping to avoid the ‘cut off from the fade’ part of it,” Hawke pointed out.

“Yes, I am trying to decide the best way to go about this,” Orsino said thoughtfully. He flipped through the book, eyes flicking back and forth as he searched. He hummed as he thought, and pulled down another book to look through it as well. Several minutes passed in near silence as the Enchanter searched for whatever he was looking for. Finally, he let out a satisfied grunt. “Yes, I believe I know how we must go about doing this,” he said, stacking the books neatly on his desk.

Hawke raised her head from her hands and stared at him warily. “What do I have to do?”

Orsino began rummaging through a cabinet, setting out various bottles of ingredients. “I believe I can place a fake brand on your forehead, and I believe I can develop a potion that will help recreate the emotionless aspect of Tranquility, as well as dampen your magic,” the elf explained. Next pulled out was a small cauldron, and a base stand. “I would request that you stay here until I finish the potion, but I have no idea how long it will take to finish it.”

“I’ll stay,” Hawke sighed. “I don’t…I don’t want to have to face my friends until this is over. I’m not sure what this deception is going to do to them. I don’t think I can face them yet.”

“I understand.” The First Enchanter set the cauldron on the base, and lit a flame under it with a flick of his finger. “You are welcome to observe, then.”

Two and a half hours later, Orsino held up a small cup full of a murky green liquid. “Is that it?” Hawke asked. “It looks like pond water.”

Osino chuckled. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said. Hawke took the cup from him and swilled it around, frowning, then downed it in one gulp. She grimaced and shuddered at the bitter taste. “The main ingredient is magebane, to restrict your magic, but it will not completely prevent it. You must continue to be vigilant and not use it accidentally. It will also restrict your more prominent emotional reactions, but again will not completely stop them. But it will at least stop your facial expressions from betraying you. I also believe I know how to imprint the fake brand upon your forehead, if you will allow me.”

Hawke nodded, and sat upright in the chair as the Enchanter approached her. He held his hands out in front of him, hovering in front of her forehead, and closed his eyes. A soft yellow light poured forth from his hands, and the skin on her forehead began itching intensely. She gripped the chair tight and squeezed her eyes shut, unable to stop a whimper from escaping as the sensation climbed to nearly unbearable heights. And then, it was over.

Orsino stared at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. “It is done,” he sighed, and handed her a small mirror. Hawke lifted it and examined the blazing sun symbol etched into her skin, and it matched every nightmare she’d ever had about being caught by the Circle.

“Is it permanent?” she asked after an uncertain heartbeat.

“No, I should be able to undo it once your plan is over,” Orsino sighed. “I am simply grateful that this is merely a ruse, and not an actual Rite of Tranquility.” He turned around and poured the rest of the potion into a bottle, and sealed it with the lid. “Here, this should get you through the rest of the week. A single mouthful every morning should be enough to get you through the day. Should you require more, if this ruse goes on longer than expected, you know where to find me. I am certain the Knight-Commander will agree to allow you access, considering your circumstances.”

Hawke nodded; already, she could feel the potion taking effect. Either that, or her nerves were simply getting the better of her. “Thank you, First Enchanter,” she said softly, standing. “I’d better get home before people wonder where I’ve gone.”

“Of course.” The two mages made their way to the door, and the elf held the door open for her. “I don’t know exactly what you and the Knight-Commander have planned, but please be careful,” he said in a low voice. “I do not wish to see you made Tranquil for real.”

“Thank you.” She inclined her head, then pulled her hood up to hide the fake brand. No need to spread the word sooner than necessary.

Orsino watched the apostate’s retreating figure until she turned a corner and disappeared. He shut the door and returned to his desk, eyeing the strewn books and potion ingredients thoughtfully. Perhaps he had gone too far, he mused, in assisting the maleficar Quentin in his research. If he had known the depths of the blood mage’s depravity, he would not have been so free with his help.

Of course, he thought as he began cleaning everything up, it was indeed irony that his help had resulted in the death of the mother of the only apostate Meredith had ever willingly let go free. Life was strange and full of many coincidences, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the relatively actionless chapter, but I promise the next one is going to be MUCH more interesting.


	7. Stunned into Silence

In the end, Hawke was only given two days of peace before her “secret” was revealed. She was in the study, trying to find the right words to tell Carver that their mother had been brutally murdered. She was on her fifth draft when she heard her front door open. Thinking it was either Bodahn or Orana, she continued writing.

“ _Carver, I wish I had better news for you. I don’t know how else to say it besides just to come out and say it; Mother is dead. A maleficar used her to fuel his evil magic, and she didn’t make it_.”

She could only imagine how her brother would react to this; first their father, then Bethany, and now Mother were gone. Gamlen was the only family either of them had left, besides each other, though that was a poor comfort.

Voices carried to her from the front door, and she paused to listen. When she recognized them, her blood ran cold: Varric and Isabela.

“I’m afraid Mistress Hawke isn’t feeling well today,” Bodahn was saying nervously. “She probably doesn’t want to be out and about-”

“Nonsense,” Varric said dismissively. “She’s been cooped up too much recently, the fresh air will do her good.”

“Besides, we’re mostly just checking up on her. Making sure she’s eating, that kind of thing,” Isabela chimed in. “And if we can do that and beat her at Wicked Grace, then it’s a win-win scenario.”

Thanking the Maker that she’d remembered this morning to take the potion Orsino had made, she turned to face the two rogues as they entered the study, followed by an anxious Bodahn.

“Hey Hawke, you up for some Wicked Grace? Rivaini and I have a bet going that-” Varric’s eyes fell upon the brand on Hawke’s forehead, and his sentence stammered to a halt. Isabela noticed the brand at the same time, and clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Hawke fought the urge to cover the fake brand with her hand. Instead she stood and turned to face them fully, fighting to keep a neutral expression. “Hello,” she said in a near monotone. “How are you both today?”

Never before had she seen either rogue speechless. Varric’s usually ruddy face had gone pale, and Isabela’s eyes glittered with tears.

“Shit, Hawke,” the dwarf breathed. He stepped close, eyes wide in shock. “W-what…what happened?”

Hawke raised a hand to lightly touch the intent of the brand in her skin. “After mother’s death, I went to Meredith to get her help finding Quentin,” she explained, mind spinning on how to explain this without tipping them off to the truth. The horror and grief in her friends’ eyes tore at her heart, but Orsino’s potion was doing its job; the emotions were there, but they were muted, far below the surface. “She told me to stay out of it and I lost my temper. Meredith realized I was a mage, and made me Tranquil for my own safety and the safety of those around me.”

Varric reeled back, stunned. “You went to _Meredith_!?” he exclaimed. “I know you were upset, you have every right to be, but didn’t you think for just one minute that-”

He was cut off as Isabela rushed past him and flung herself at Hawke. The apostate grunted as the rogue clung to her in a tight embrace with a husky sob. Hawke slowly wrapped her arms around the woman and closed her eyes. “I am sorry,” she whispered.

Isabela stroked her hair, trembling. “I always knew you were reckless but I didn’t know you were _this_ reckless!” she muttered tearfully.

Hawke pushed her back and looked her in the eye. “I am fine, really,” she said firmly. “I am alive and that is what matters.”

“What is Fenris going to say?” Varric wondered. “Shit, what is _Anders_ going to say?”

“I…would rather you not tell either of them,” Hawke interjected. “Anders especially. I fear he would only inflame the situation with Meredith.”

The dwarf seemed to deflate before her eyes. “I won’t tell Blondie,” he promised with a sigh. “But the elf needs to know.”

“In that case, I would rather he hear it from you instead of gossip,” Hawke compromised. “He deserves that much.”

“I’m staying here with you,” Isabela interrupted. Her warm hand found its way into Hawke’s, and the rogue gave her a comforting squeeze. “Varric, you can go, but I’m staying here.”

The dwarf nodded after a moment. “Alright.” He turned and left, and after a moment Hawke heard the door shut heavily behind him.

“Hawke, how could you do this?” the duelist fretted as they sat back at the paper-strewn table. “You _know_ that going anywhere near the Gallows is dangerous. And you went and confronted Meredith? How reckless can you be!”

“I know,” Hawke acknowledged. “It was foolish.”

Isabela picked up one of the half-finished letters and read it over. “You’re not going to tell Carver about…your situation?”

The mage hesitated. “I feared one piece of bad news was more than enough,” she said at length. “As it is, I’m having a tough time finding the right words.”

“Here, let me help. I’m not as good a writer as Varric, but I still have a way with words.” The rogue grabbed the quill and a fresh sheet, and began scribbling.

Barely five minutes had passed before a thunderous _BANG_ interrupted them, making them jump. “What the hell was that!?” Isabela exclaimed.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Hawke muttered. Sure enough, she turned to face the doorway as it was filled with the lithe, wide-eyed and wild-haired form of Fenris. His eyes fell upon the brand on her forehead, and white-hot fury filled his expression. He marched forward, grabbed Hawke by the robes and jerked her roughly upright.

“Hey, take it easy!” Isabela exclaimed. She stepped forward to separate the two, but Fenris turned to her with a snarl.

“Stay out of this!” he growled. He pulled Hawke close, till their noses were nearly touching. He was shorter than her by at least a half-foot, but that didn’t seem to change the fact he was holding her up with one arm. “What. Have. You. Done.”

“Fenris, let me explain-” Hawke began.

“You’re going to explain, all right,” he spat. He jerked his head at the door. “Isabela, get out.”

“I’m not going anywhere!” the rogue said hotly.

“I need…I just need to talk to her alone,” he explained, in a forced calm tone. “Please.”

Isabela looked between the two of them, clearly upset, but after a long moment she slunk out the door. Fenris waited, never breaking eye contact with Hawke, until he heard the front door close before he released the front of her robes. She staggered back, but barely regained her footing before he swept her up in her arms and strode away.

“Fenris, put me down,” she begged. She could see how upset he was in the taut muscles in his neck, the hard clenched line of his jaw, his pressed-together lips. He ignored her, and continued up the staircase and on into her room. He kicked open the ajar door and dropped her unceremoniously on her bed.

In the two days since he had come and rescued her from her alcohol-drenched stupor, she’d cleaned and fixed most of the room, though the faint stench of ash and alcohol still remained. He turned and slammed the door closed, the still-mangled doorknob creaking sadly as it wobbled in the doorframe. When he turned back to face her, his face was unreadable.

“Fenris, I can explain,” she said again. He strode forward and sat heavily on the bed next to her. His eyes never left hers, his usual deep green somehow seeming darker than normal.

“What happened?” he asked softly. His hands, devoid of his normal clawed gauntlets, wrapped around hers. Hawke’s eyes dropped to examine his hands, lined with lyrium all the way down to his clean, even fingernails. His dark skin only emphasized how pale her own skin was. She’d always liked that contrast, she thought to herself.

“I went to Meredith for help bringing Quentin to justice,” she explained softly. “She told me to stay out of it, that it was a Templar investigation. I lost my temper, and revealed myself to be an apostate. This is the result.” She looked back up to find Fenris’ eyes wide with horror.

“You went to _Meredith_?” he repeated in a strangled tone. “Don’t you realize how foolish that is? You’re an apostate for Andraste’s sake, and you went-”He cut himself off as his emotion rose, and his hands clenched around Hawke’s. “I thought I told you not to do anything reckless,” he continued, grief finally leaking into his voice.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke apologized again. Deep beneath the influence of Orsino’s potion, her heart was breaking seeing the man she loved break down in front of her. “I was trying to do what I thought was right.”

“’What is right’ be damned, what about what is sane?” Fenris grabbed Hawke’s shoulders and shook her, voice rising. “Didn’t you think about the consequences? Were you really willing to risk your life for the sake of revenge? Are you satisfied sacrificing _everything that makes you who you are,_ just so you can try and gain vengeance?”

“Fenris, please,” Hawke stammered, fighting to maintain the neutral tone and expression. His hands fell away from her as if her skin had burned him. His hair fell down into his eyes, hiding his expression. His shoulders shook, and he let out a shuddering breath. Hawke reached out and tried to take his hand in hers, but he slid of the bed and walked away.

“Stay here,” he commanded. “I’ll be back.” He jerked her door open, strode out, and slammed it shut behind him.


	8. A Risky Plan

Fenris had been gone for well over an hour and a half before he came back. He pushed her door open roughly, the mangled doorknob causing it to stick in the doorframe, and marched into the room, the grief and rage on his face now replaced by a determined stare.

“Fenris, what is going on?” she pleaded.

“Come on,” he said firmly. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Get dressed.”

“Where are we going?” Hawke prodded.

The elf refused to answer, and insisted she put on her usual armor. Once she was dressed, he took her hand again and nearly dragged her out the door.

The two walked for nearly an hour, slipping quietly out the main gates of the city and into the dark coast beyond. Hawke kept begging Fenris to tell her where he was taking her, but he kept silent. In the dim moonlight his hair shone like snow, and his eyes glinted with determination.

They followed the trail as it meandered down the mountainside towards the coastline, and the smell of the salty sea washed over Hawke. The ocean breeze was never really gone, this close to the coast, but the smell reminded Hawke too much of their cramped boat ride to Kirkwall six years ago. She shivered in the cold night air as distantly, the chantry bell struck eleven o’clock.

Fenris noticed her goosebumps and stopped. He stepped close and rubbed his hands up and down her arms, trying to warm her with friction. “It’s not far now,” he said in a hushed voice.

“Where are we going?” Hawke whispered again, eyes drooping from exhaustion. It had been well over twelve hours since she’d taken Orsino’s potion, and the effects had long since worn off.

“Come on. We’re nearly there.” With that, he was pulling her along again.

The trail began going up the mountainside again, and Hawke kept tripping over rocks in the dark. Finally, a yawning cavern appeared to the side, and Fenris pulled her towards it. A flickering, yellow light emanated from the back, growing brighter the closer they drew to it. Finally, they rounded the last corner to find a small fire crackling in the center of the cavern. Kneeling beside the fire, warming his hands, was Anders.

She stifled a groan. _Fuck. This won’t end well._

The instant Anders’ eyes clapped upon Hawke’s Tranquility brand, the effect was immediate. He leapt to his feet and stared at her, horrorstruck, eyes wide with a haunting familiarity. In that moment, she knew that he was reliving the moment he had discovered that Karl, his ex-lover, had been made Tranquil.

Hawke cursed Meredith for holding her friends’ safety over her head like one would hold a treat to get a dog to do a trick.

Anders rounded on Fenris. “I thought you said she was sick!” he exclaimed.

“Depending on your definition of it, she is,” the elf replied tersely.

Anders stepped close to her, raising shaking hands to hold her face almost tenderly. Up close she could see tears swimming in his eyes. “Another lost,” he murmured. Slightly louder, he asked, “How did this happen?”

“I went to Meredith,” Hawke explained. “About Quentin escaping. I thought she could help capture him and bring him in to justice.”

If Anders had looked upset before, it was nothing compared to his reaction to this. “You did WHAT?” he nearly shouted. His hands fell to her shoulders and he shook her slightly. “Don’t you know how foolish that is?”

“It was a risk I was willing to take.”

“Oh sure, _you’re_ willing to risk magical castration, having lived outside the Circle your whole life,” Anders sputtered angrily. His eyes flashed blue, and his voice deepened and almost seemed to echo. Hawke stared, wide-eyed. Had Fenris planned this? “Did you decide not to stop and think about the-”

“Anders, please,” Hawke begged. His hands tightened painfully on her arms, and flashes of blue fire flickered around him and singed her. “Anders! Justice, please stop, you’re hurting me-”

A hand appeared and pushed her back, away from the possessed mage. Fenris had jumped between him and pushed her back to safety. He held Anders at arm’s length, his lyrium markings already flaring white-blue.

“Get a hold of yourself!” the elf said harshly. Anders snarled in response, his glowing blue eyes staring sightlessly ahead. “If you do not stop you will kill Hawke. Is that what you want!?”

The change was miniscule, but Hawke could see the fight go out of the mage at that. He eventually slumped, the blue glow fading away. He fell to his knees, exhaustion etched into every line of his stubbled face.

“I have a plan to cure Hawke,” Fenris said, directing his statement to the man at his feet. Both mage’s eyes snapped to the elf, and he stared at them determinedly.

“This was your plan? Get me to come out to some cave in the middle of nowhere and make me angry enough to let Justice out?”

“It’s out of the way enough that if you totally lose control, innocent people wouldn’t die.”

“You know there _isn’t_ a cure,” Anders condescended, though his voice lacked its normal energy. “She may as well have been beheaded.”

“When you found your mage friend, Karl, in the Chantry. You let that demon in you out and it woke him up.”

In an instant, Fenris’ plan was clear. Hawke stared at him, flabbergasted, but thinking rapidly. He stared back searchingly, clearly looking for some sign of emotion. _What do I do?_

A split second of deliberation later, Hawke made her decision; she burst into tears.

Arms wrapped around her and pulled her close. She felt the cold breastplate of Fenris’ armor pressed against her cheek and she clung to him; for this moment only, she could seek this simple reassurance. He stroked her hair as she sniffled and inhaled his warm, rich scent.

“Hawke.” His voice rumbled in his chest. “Look at me. Please.”

Hawke sniffled again and pulled back, wiping her eyes. Fenris swam into vision, with Anders hovering anxiously behind him.

“This was your plan?” Anders said dubiously. “I could’ve killed her.”

“I was here to protect her,” Fenris growled. He wiped the tears from Hawke’s face and she felt her cheeks redden from embarrassment.

“You know this isn’t actually a cure, right?” Anders said somberly. “Karl went back to being tranquil a few minutes after and I had to put him out of his misery like a sick dog."

“I understand, but if you attempt to recreate that with Hawke, your friend Justice will become very lonely, very quickly,” Fenris growled. The mage raised his hands in surrender, sighing.

“Guys, you shouldn’t have done this,” Hawke interrupted. This could endanger Meredith’s plan to catch Quentin, and if she knew this had happened, she might bring in Anders and Fenris on principle alone. Hawke wasn’t going to let that happen. “You could’ve ruined the-” She snapped her mouth shut, but it was too late.

“Ruined what?” Fenris demanded.

“Hawke, what’s going on?” Anders asked. “Are you in danger?”

She stared back and forth between the two men, both of whom she trusted with her life. “Alright,” she sighed. “I did go to Meredith for help catching Mother’s killer. She did make me Tranquil. But it’s part of a ruse.”

“A ruse?” Anders repeated.

“I’m bait to lure Quentin in and capture him. If he believes I’m defenseless, he is more likely to seek me out for revenge.” Hawke squinted at Fenris in the dim light, half afraid of his reaction. His expression had grown ever more stone-like with every word she spoke, and he stared at her with an inscrutable expression. “Fenris, please. Don’t interfere. Meredith threatened you, and you, Anders. She threatened all of you, if you interfere.”

“I don’t care, we’re not going to let you face that maleficar alone!” Anders protested hotly.

“Anders is right,” Fenris said at last, surprising them both. “We won’t let you put yourself in that kind of danger, at least without us there with you. You can tell Meredith that she may continue this ruse of hers, but we will be there if for nothing else but to keep you safe.”

“Alright, fine” Hawke agreed hastily. This was stretching too long, they would suspect something if she didn’t go back to being ‘tranquil’ soon. “Just please, don’t act against Meredith. I want you all to stay safe. I…I’ll explain everything once all this is over, I swear,” she added on an impulse.

Then, she did her best to regain her neutral expression, becoming ‘tranquil’ once more. Anders’ face twisted in grief and confusion, as she expected. Fenris, however, had his brows drawn together in thought, his green eyes lingering on her. Something about his thoughtful expression worried her. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he suspected what was really going on, but she dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had appeared.


	9. An Interim

It took less than a week for word of Hawke being made ‘Tranquil’ to spread through the entire city-state. Some people had the decency to attempt to be subtle with their gawking, like the Hightown nobility who whispered behind their hands and fluttering fans; others, such as most of Lowtown’s common folk, stared openly, pointing at her as they discussed it with their companion. Hawke could do nothing about it, or react in any way besides answering politely any questions anybody asked about it. For the most part, she simply told everybody that she had been made Knight-Commander Meredith’s new assistant, and that being Tranquil helped her stay focused.

Hawke was, of course, completely miserable. This whole ordeal was just as bad as, if not worse than, her mother’s murderer walking free. This was even worse than Bethany’s untimely death, she decided, as a drunkard openly pointed and laughed at her as she passed him. Orsino’s potion did the trick, however. So long as she remembered to take her daily dose every morning of the foul-tasting brew, her emotions stayed damped down, and her connection to the Fade – and her magic – stayed distant and fuzzy, just out of reach.

The one bright spot of this miserable masquerade had to be that most of her family wasn’t alive to endure this, though it was a cold comfort at best. Hawke’s father had died a few years before the first whispers of the Blight had reached the Hawke family’s ears. Bethany had perished before they even reached Ferelden. Carver had fallen prey to the Blight’s corruption far below the surface in the Deep Roads, and had only survived thanks to pure luck of a group of Wardens nearby and Anders’ quick thinking. And her mother, of course, was murdered.

Hawke paused in her routine armor cleaning as her thoughts returned to Carver. They’d always had a rocky relationship, she admitted, but the two always loved each other dearly beneath the taunting and rivalry. After his twin’s death, Carver had allowed Hawke closer, and they’d reconciled some of their differences once the reality of them being the last Hawke children had set in.

The thought occurred that word could potentially reach Carver soon of her predicament. Her brow furrowed in the echo of concern as she wondered if her brother might just storm out of Weisshaupt to track her down and berate her for being so careless.

The days dragged by with no sign of Quentin, nor any word from Meredith. Hawke tried to go about her business as normally as possible, considering the restrictions she was now under, with moderate success. She ran errands frequently, especially for Meredith. Her now-usual visits to the Gallows disguised her visits to Orsino for refills on his potion quite well.

“How much longer is this ruse going to be necessary?” Hawke asked Meredith one afternoon. “Surely you have some word on Quentin’s whereabouts by now.”

The Templar simply pinned her with an icy glare and said “You already know everything you need to be aware of.”

Since word of Hawke’s ‘Tranquility’ had become public, nearly all of Hawke’s companions had become almost insufferable. Aveline and Sebastian both expressed their condolences and sympathies, but were stuck with their relative duties over their freedom to be out and about with Hawke. Merrill, Isabela, and Varric were all incredibly protective of Hawke, hanging back in fights to ensure that she was safe. But none of them matched the fierceness of Fenris and Anders when it came to her safety. Though their loyalty and affection was touching, Hawke found it more than a little stifling.

Being unable to use magic in a fight was a handicap, certainly, but she was far from defenseless. Hawke hadn’t spent her teenage and young adult years only honing her magical talent, but her companions either didn’t know or had forgotten that she was quite capable of swinging around a very heavy staff as if it were made of rolled paper.

Their mother-henning relented only following Hawke, Fenris, Isabela, and Varric being jumped by a group of thugs in Lowtown one evening. Fenris and Isabela got drawn into the thick of the fight, as usual, with Varric hanging back near Hawke.

Hawke parried a slashing sword in time to hear Varric shout behind her. She turned to see that his assailant had gotten his blade stuck in Bianca’s retractable arms, and the two were locked in a struggling stalemate. Seeing that Hawke was relatively helpless, without Varric’s protection, the three thugs who weren’t actively fighting anybody all advanced on her.

“Hawke!” Varric shouted. Fenris’ head whipped around, and his face twisted in desperation as he saw her retreating away from the attackers.

“Hawke, run!” Fenris shouted before his assailant sliced at him again. He blocked the blow, only barely escaping being cut in two. “Run!” Isabela glanced desperately at Hawke, herself still only barely managing to hold off two men slicing at her with daggers.

Hawke twirled her staff idly, staring down the men with a neutral stare. “I wouldn’t advise this,” she said lightly, readying herself. The first man charged her, his sword flashing in the moonlight. She sidestepped him easily, swinging the staff around so the round, heavy end of it slammed into the back of his head with a dull _crunch_. She turned in time for the second to leap forward; she parried his sword and sliced the blade of her staff across his torso. The man fell silently to the ground as the last man stepped forward.

He was smarter than the other two; he stepped close where she couldn’t maneuver with her staff. Hawke tried to push him back but he grabbed her staff, anchoring them together. She twisted and stomped her foot down on the arch of his foot. The thug howled in agony, and she heard a clatter as the man dropped his sword. She yanked backwards and pulled free of him while he was distracted, then leapt forward again and sank the blade of her staff deep into his torso.

The man gurgled, staring at her with wide eyes as the color drained from his face. He opened his mouth and coughed, blood sputtering and dripping from his lips. Hawke jerked the blade out of him with a sickening squelch, then twisted and sliced swiftly across his throat for a quick death. The man collapsed at her feet, lifeless.

Hawke took a second to catch her breath, then looked back at her companions. The other thugs had fled, and now Varric, Isabela, and Fenris were all staring at her, their eyes wide with shock. Fenris nearly ran over to her, quickly patting her down to assess any damage.

“How on earth did you manage that?” Isabela wondered, astonished.

“I don’t rely only on magic for protection,” Hawke explained. Fenris wiped away a small spatter of blood from her cheek as he sighed in relief. “This staff is still heavy and it will still hurt if it hits someone in the head or if I stab somebody with the blade, after all.”

“I guess that’s true,” Varric chuckled as he finally untangled the knife from his crossbow’s workings. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece after all that.”

 Though everyone else relented afterwards on trying to keep her safe, Fenris still always stayed close, eyeballing any potential threats lest any harm come to her.

If there was any upside to this miserable masquerade, it had to be that at least Fenris and Anders weren’t as antagonistic as they normally were. They still bickered, of course, but their normal venom was lacking.

“I fail to see how you being Tranquil will draw Quentin out,” Fenris confessed to her one evening. Hawke looked up from her dinner, chewing thoughtfully.

“We have to be patient, Fenris,” she said at length. “It’s been nearly three weeks of the entire Templar force being out for him, Meredith must be close to finding him.”

Silently, Hawke agreed with Fenris. This charade had dragged on long enough. Still, if for nothing else but her friends’ safety, she bit her tongue.

Four weeks had now passed since Quentin had kidnapped her mother for use in his grotesque experiment. Though Orsino’s potion did its job of keeping her emotions in check, she still relished the hot flames that rose under her skin at the thought of finally getting justice against him. That morning, her persistence finally paid off. Bodahn greeted her cheerfully, saying a letter had arrived for her. Hawke’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the Templar insignia on the wax seal. She cracked it open and read it anxiously, though of course it didn’t show.

“Serah Hawke,

It is time. Please come to the Gallows tonight at 7pm to assist in the destruction of all materials pertaining towards blood magic and necromancy that we have collected. We shall ensure that no other mage will ever attempt what the maleficar Quentin has done. We are confident that our special guest shall attend.

Cordially, Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the short chapter. I promise the next one is going to be MUCH more interesting!


	10. Riposte

Hawke’s heart was in her throat during the whole boat ride to the Gallows. As usual, the looming alabaster stone turned her stomach, waves of near-crippling anxiety trying to turn her into a nervous wreck. In that moment, Hawke was grateful for Orsino’s potion allowing her to keep a degree of composure.

A hand slipped into hers, and she looked down to find that Fenris had entwined their fingers. He gazed at her steadily, giving a nod of encouragement. She nodded back, then returned her scrutiny to the Gallows dock, where she could see the outlines of several figures.

Their boat bumped into the dock and Meredith stepped forward out of the group of armored Templars. “You’re early,” the Knight-Commander remarked.

“I’m eager to see this done,” Hawke replied as she stepped onto the dock, followed by Fenris, Anders, and Varric.

“As am I.” Meredith gestured for them to follow her. “This will take place in one of the smaller courtyards, away from most people’s eyes. Have your companions hide in the shadows, there are a handful of pillars that will provide cover. My men and I will also wait out of sight until the maleficar reveals himself.”

“How do you know for certain Quentin will be here?” Hawke asked, not really expecting an explanation.

“I have a reliable source. You play your part, and I will play mine,” was all Meredith would say. A moment later Meredith pushed open a door and a soft breeze wafted over them. The door opened to a small courtyard, just like the Knight-Commander had said, where a couple of Templars were piling various manuscripts and books in a large, unlit brazier. “Here is where all the materials for blood magic and necromancy are being compiled,” Meredith continued in a suddenly louder and stronger voice. Hawke understood that as of that moment, the performance was on. “I want you to help ensure that as these are burned, that _all_ of it is destroyed. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Hawke replied evenly, using the same carrying volume when she spoke. Behind her, her companions slipped silently to the sides, keeping out of sight behind the pillars.

The two women approached the brazier as the Templars finished putting everything in the pile. “That’s all of the materials, Knight-Commander,” one of them said crisply. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Fetch some oil, and a torch,” Meredith commanded.

“At once, ser,” the other Templar said. They both offered a salute and marched off. A moment later, one of them had returned with a bucket of lamp oil in one hand and a torch in the other.

“My assistant can take care of this,” the Knight-Commander said dismissively. She turned her icy stare to Hawke. “I leave this in your hands. Alert me once you have finished.” Then, she and the other Templar both turned, leaving Hawke alone in the center of the courtyard.

Hawke fought the urge to peer around and find her friends’ outlines in the shadowy corners of the courtyard. Their presence, however hidden, was the only thing keeping her from running for the hills. She was devoid of her staff or even a dagger, wearing plain clothes instead of her usual armor, and she was unable to use her magic. She was as defenseless as was possible for her to be.

Hefting a sigh, she picked up the bucket of oil where the Templar had set it and went to pour it over the papers.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, child.”

The reedy voice was familiar, and sent a shudder up Hawke’s spine despite her emotions being magically dampened. She turned slowly to find a robed figure emerging from the shadows at the far end of the courtyard: Quentin.

He looked much worse for wear than the last time they’d met. His skin was ashen, his robes blood-crusted and filthy. Half of his face was slack and drooling, one of his eyes clouded over, and the side of his head had a horrifying dent that oozed pus and was enflamed to a bright red around the wound. Hawke was vividly reminded of finally finding her mother, stitched onto some monstrous patchwork body, and the fight that had ended with her smashing in the maleficar’s skull before he fled.

His good eye stared her down with unbridled hatred and his jaw worked, fighting against his mostly unresponsive lips. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“I’m preventing anybody else suffering as I have,” Hawke called back evenly. Quentin stepped closer, and she resisted the urge to step back.

“I see you can no longer suffer at all,” he rasped out, his eye upon her Tranquility brand. “When people like me walk free, and people like you are reduced to emotionless shells, what justice is there in the world?”

Hawke felt a flush of anger rise up. It took all her self-control to keep a steady tone. “You know nothing of justice,” she replied, “but you will learn.”

As if waiting for a cue, at that moment the gates around the edges of the room all slammed shut, sending a deafening rattling echoing off the stone walls. As the sound faded, Meredith stepped forward out of the shadows, flanked by half a dozen Templars on both sides. “It was incredibly foolish of you to come into my Gallows, maleficar,” the Knight-Commander drawled. “I will give you only one chance to surrender. I suggest you make use of it.”

In response, Quentin whipped a dagger out of his belt and sliced it across his palm. Bright red blood sprayed forth, shining in the dying sunlight, as shades sprouted out of the earth. They gave unearthly screams and charged the Templars, who unsheathed their swords and leapt forward into the fray.

A Templar pushed Hawke back, away from the danger, and she felt someone grab the back of her robes and pull her backwards. Fenris rushed past her, his giant sword flashing in the dying sunlight, as Anders and Varric stepped in front of her.

“Stay back!” Varric shouted. “We’ll handle this.”

Anders shot off a volley of energy pulses, striking the demons, but new ones rose as fast as the old ones were struck down. Varric peppered them with his bolts; the demons screeched as arrows would suddenly appear buried in their flesh, until they too would sink to the ground, disintegrating as they perished.

The Templars pressed forward, cornering Quentin. Instead of looking worried, instead he started laughing. Low at first, his hysterical giggles rose in pitch and echoed over the whole courtyard. He raised his dagger high, and with a thrust sank it deep in his gut.

His laughter cut off abruptly as blood pooled at his feet. It began to glow, bubbling and rising until it was a huge form hulking above them all. Spines and horns appeared everywhere, and a dozen black beady eyes stared malevolently at them all. The pride demon stepped forward, a low evil chuckle rumbling from its chest.

“Stand firm!” Meredith shouted. She charged forward, sword flashing, as the remaining dozen Templars and Fenris all did the same. Hawke watched anxiously as the beast roared and swiped at them all. Behind it, Quentin still stood, though the entire front of his robes was stained red with blood.

At that moment, the pride demon let out a bellow. Sparks crackled along its spines, and it sent out a shockwave at its attackers. Electricity arched between the Templars, causing them to stiffen and cry out before collapsing. The lightning reached Fenris last; he stiffened too but remained on his feet by some miracle.

The demon took advantage of the elf’s lapse in concentration and grabbed him by the legs. Fenris fell backwards as his feet were swept from beneath him and his head hit the flagstones with a dull _thud._ The demon raised him high in the air by his legs, Fenris’ arms dangling limply.

Terror seized Hawke’s heart in a vice, and for a moment she couldn’t draw breath. For one horrible moment she was back in Ferelden, watching the darkspawn ogre dangle Bethany the same way, before it had slammed her to the ground and snuffed out her young life. Then she was back in the present, and the demon was lowering Fenris as Quentin approached him.

Fenris stared dazedly at the maleficar, half conscious and bleeding. Hawke could see his snowy hair was staining red on one side.

“I remember you,” Quentin said softly. He grabbed Fenris’ face and turned it so he could see it better. “Yes, the elf with the strange markings on his skin. If memory serves me, you interfered last time as well. I have you to thank that I was unsuccessful in resurrecting my love.” The maleficar’s face twisted in fury. “I shall have my revenge of you too.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Hawke saw Meredith rising unsteadily to her feet. As Quentin extended a hand towards Fenris’ exposed neck, flickering with deadly flames between his fingers, Meredith lifted her sword and quietly approached the blood mage from his blind spot.

In that moment, Hawke knew that if she did nothing, Fenris was going to die. Meredith certainly wasn’t going to try and safe Fenris.

“Fenris, no!” Hawke pushed Anders and Varric aside, arm outstretched desperately towards the men. Quentin’s fingers had just brushed the lyrium-lined skin of Fenris’ throat when blindingly bright lightning, stronger than anything she’d ever summoned before, leapt along her arm and hand, then arched across the room with a deafening _CRACK_.


	11. Tranquillité

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Mike, my favorite reader. Love you.

It was as if time stood still as the echoes of thunder slowly faded away. Everybody stood, blinking away the spots in their vision as they tried to process what had just happened.

Quentin still stood next Fenris, his mouth hanging open in surprise. Blood tricked down his chin from his mouth, and he looked down slowly at the fist-sized hole that had just appeared in the middle of his torso. The edges of the wound were singed and glowing like embers, and the smell of charred flesh wafted over them all. He looked back up at Hawke with his one good eye. The maleficar tried to speak but nothing came out. Then he crumpled to the ground, dead.

The pride demon let out a pathetic squeak; the lightning had struck it too, and it had a hole in its chest to match its summoner. It stumbled back , dropping Fenris into an ungraceful heap, then collapsed, also dead.

Hawke bolted over to Fenris, falling painfully on her knees. Dimly, she could hear Anders and Varric talking loudly, demanding to know “what the bloody hell” was going on. She rolled her lover over onto his back, and his head lolled limply.

“Fenris, talk to me,” she said urgently. She held his face between her hands, his blood coating her fingers and making them slick. “Oh fuck. Wake up. Shit, please wake up…”

The elf’s eyelids flickered, and he stared dazedly up at her. “H-Hawke,” he mumbled.

“Thank Andraste,” she breathed. “Do you know where you are? Do you remember what happened?”

“We…Quentin. We fought Quentin. And you-” Fenris’ eyes widened as he realized what happened. “You used magic.”

Hawke gave a watery smile and wiped her eyes. “Yeah, I did,” she chuckled. His eyes softened in wonder at the sound of her laugh.

“But, what about this?” His hand reached up, and he lightly touched the Tranquility brand on her forehead. She took his hand in hers and kissed his palm.

“It’s fake,” she reassured him. “I mean, I assume it’s real, but Orsino told me he could remove it.”

For the first time in the four years she had known him, Hawke glimpsed a glimmer of tears in his eyes before he reached up and pulled her down on top of him in a crushing embrace. She wrapped her arms around him and held him just as tightly. In that moment, she wasn’t sure which of them was trembling more.

Hawke looked up to find Anders kneeling beside them. “Here, let me mend that wound,” he said, gesturing at Fenris’ still bleeding head. To Hawke’s amazement, Fenris accepted the help without complaint. Soft blue light emanated from the mage’s hands as he began his work.

“This was some act, Hawke,” Varric commented. He dusted dirt of his coat and gave her a crooked grin. “I’m glad an act is all it was, though.”

“You and me both,” Hawke admitted.

Meredith approached them now, sheathing her sword. The Knight-Commander’s expression made her heart sink; from the look on her face, Hawke guessed that she might be about to be made Tranquil for real.

Hawke stood to greet the Templar. “What do you think, Knight-Commander?” she asked cautiously.

“I wish to congratulate you on a job well done,” the blonde replied. “Even if I would’ve preferred for my Templars to handle it.”

“And what of me?” Hawke regretted asking the question as soon as the words left her lips. It felt like everybody present, Templars included, held their breath waiting for the answer.

“I trust you will keep to your own, and continue holding yourself and your friends,” here, the Knight-Commanders eyes flicked to Anders, “to the same standard to which I hold you. This is an _opportunity_. Do not disappoint me.” She turned and began walking away.

Hawke let out a surprised breath. Knight-Commander Meredith, willingly letting not one but _two_ apostates go free? “Seriously?”

Meredith turned back with a glare. “Serah Hawke, you really ought to learn to recognize when you have been given a gift, and not to question from whence it came.”

“Yes, ser.”

Minutes later, everybody except Fenris helped the wounded Templars over to the Gallows’ medical facility while Orsino stepped in to magically remove the Tranquility brand from Hawke's forehead. Then, with Fenris’s arm slung around her shoulders, they made their way back to the boat to Kirkwall. Varric carried Fenris’ sword, the size difference between the two absolutely comical.

“You said you were going to ‘explain everything’ once this was over?” Anders prompted as he examined Fenris’ head for any sign of more serious injury.

“Oh yeah,” Hawke laughed lightly. “Well, this was ‘everything’,” she said, gesturing at herself. “All there was to explain was that me being Tranquil was a trick, I already told you everything else.”

“I wish you’d just been honest with us from the beginning,” Varric groused. “We could’ve helped.”

“The whole point of it was that everyone’s performance had to be _believable_.”

“What, you think I can’t act?” Varric pulled his best mock offended expression. “I’ll have you know, back in the Merchants Guild I had a poker-face that could’ve bluffed the royal underpants off King Cailan.”

The whole time Hawke was joking and laughing with Varric, Fenris kept staring at Hawke, still in shock and awe at seeing her whole. Their hands stayed entwined the entire ride home.

Anders bid them goodnight at Kirkwall’s docks, saying he’d been away from his patients for long enough. Varric accompanied them as far as the Hightown market, then said his farewells. Hawke and Fenris walked slowly, relishing the time alone.

“Are you sure you don’t need to find a doctor? Your head took quite the blow,” Hawke asked. Fenris waved a hand dismissively.

“I will manage fine on my own,” he replied. “But thank you for your concern. Should anything arise, I’ll let you know. I know you’ve been studying some healing magic, and I trust you with it.”

“I’m nowhere near as good as Anders is, though,” she sighed. “I’ll need more practice before I’m able to handle anything besides minor wounds.”

Fenris smiled, and they walked in silence for a ways more.

“I’m glad that a trick is all that was,” he said eventually. “The world would’ve been a poorer place without your smile.”

“Fenris, are you flirting with me?” Hawke teased. The elf chuckled.

“Perhaps,” he mused. His smile slipped away and he looked at her somberly. “Hawke, I know what I said back then, after we made love. I cannot apologize for needing space after that, but I know I hurt you, and I can’t take it back any more than I could take back a blow from a weapon. But when I thought you had been made Tranquil…I cannot describe the heartbreak I felt. I cannot stand to lose you again,” he said, stopping and staring her in the eyes. “Is there any way you can find it in yourself to forgive me?”

Hawke smiled softly and kissed his cheek. “You foolish man,” she said tenderly. “You already know the answer to that.”

Fenris’ eyes widened, and a broad, genuine smile stole across his face. His mouth crashed into hers, and her hands wound into his hair, carefully avoiding the still-tender wound on the side of his head. She sighed into his mouth as his hands tangled themselves in her hair. The tips of his clawed gauntlets scraped gently at her scalp, sending goosebumps erupting over her skin.

When they finally pulled apart, they were both breathless and a little pink in the face. “I love you, Fenris,” she whispered.

“And I you,” he whispered back.

“Do you…I mean, I assume you’ll want to sleep in your mansion like usual,” Hawke said haltingly, not wanting to overstep these new boundaries.

“Actually, I was planning on sleeping in your estate,” he replied casually as they continued walking. He squinted over at her. “Assuming that was alright with you, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” Hawke grinned. When was the last time she’d felt this lighthearted?

They finally drew up to her door, but before she could reach for the handle she felt Fenris’ hand on her arm.

“One last thing,” he said. “Never do that to me again. I could not bear it.”

“I’m sorry,” Hawke said softly. She kissed his cheek again, and opened the door for them.

No sooner was the door open than her mabari, Kitty, leapt through the doorway barking wildly. He knocked Hawke backwards onto her rump. “What on earth has gotten into you?” she demanded, pushing off the enormous wiggling canine. Kitty bolted back inside, still barking.

Hawke and Fenris followed warily, seeing what had riled the warhound. Standing in the middle of the room, fending off the leaping dog, was none other than Carver.

“Brother?” Hawke exclaimed, astonished. “What are you doing here, you’re supposed to be in Weisshaupt!”

Instead of replying, Carver marched towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her. “What am I doing here?” he repeated loudly. “What I’m doing here is trying to find out why the _fuck_ I received a letter saying you were made Tranquil! Of all the reckless bullshit you have ever pulled, confronting the damn Knight-Commander of Kirkwall has to be the-”

Carver cut of suddenly, staring at her. Realization dawned across his face. “You’re…not…Tranquil. You’re smiling!”

Hawke was unable to stop the giggles from escaping. “I always knew you cared, Carver,” she gasped between snorting laughs. She clutched her stomach as the cackles continued, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Carver shot a questioning look at Fenris, who shrugged with an indulgent chuckle.

“Come, brother,” Hawke chortled, waving Carver towards the study. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”


End file.
